The Explanation of Fears Unknown
by JantoJones
Summary: This story features the popular fanon tropes of Illya's dislike for being in medical, and his irrational hatred of green jelllo. It began as two short stories which I amalgamated and extended. My enormous gratitude goes to duckys lady for her amazing beta'ing of this story; especially with the detangling of the timeline at the beginning.


Nurses Patty Jenson and Rosie Locke smiled sweetly at Illya Kuryakin and left him to sulk on his own. He hadn't thrown anything at anyone today, yet, but he had vocalised his displeasure in at least four different languages. When it came to the Russian, this was pretty much a 'good' day.

He had been in medical for three days, following a fall from a second story window. Miraculously, nothing had been broken, but there was a lot of bruising, and a possible concussion to contend with. During this time, he had been a merciless terror, with a lot of yelling and the occasional throwing of the nearest thing to hand. These days, his tantrums had very little effect on the seasoned nurses, and their lack of reaction just frustrated him all the more. Illya watched them leave and instantly regretted his outburst. He always did.

They didn't understand what caused the feelings within him. Then again, how could they possibly be expected to understand when he had no explanation himself?

From a very young age, Illya Kuryakin had faced many dangers and horrors; many of which had sought to harm him personally. Each had caused a deep fear within him, but he'd never allowed any of them to overwhelm his senses. In fact, he'd often fed from that fear and utilised it for whatever action he'd needed to take. During his various careers Illya had endured various tortures, and painful interrogations, but nothing had compared to the all-consuming terror of being in medical.

The medical staff at U.N.C.L.E. were knowledgeable, professional and caring, and the facilities were state of the art and exceptionally comfortable. So why he turned from a quiet and reserved man, into an angry, aggressive one was anyone's guess. He wished he could understand why this place of healing and safety caused such fear within that he attacked the people who were helping. Illya also wanted to know why he couldn't swallow that fear like all the other times he'd felt it.

Somewhere, buried in the deepest recesses of his mind, a dark memory stirred. The shadow of a long-forgotten trauma flitted across his consciousness, but, before Illya could grab hold, it was chased away by head nurse, Maisie Redfearn. She had entered his room carrying a tray.

The shadow slunk away to its unremembered state.

"Good afternoon, Mr Kuryakin," she greeted him happily, ignoring the expression of annoyance he threw her way. "Are you ready for lunch?"

He offered an apathetic grunt in reply and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. Illya knew he was being a pain in the ass, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He was a man who preferred not to draw attention to himself, but the clinical surroundings transformed him into someone you had no choice but to pay attention to. He looked disdainfully at the tray, and then raised his eyebrows in surprise. As well as the standard dry turkey sandwich and glass of apple juice, there was something different.

"This jello is pink," he stated, holding the pot up as though it was something he was examining in his lab.

"That's right, Mr Kuryakin," Maisie answered, with a warm smile. "The green one seems to cause you undue distress. Since we are no longer worried about internal bleeding, and we want our patients to feel calm and comfortable, we got you this. Don't go telling any of the other patients though. This is a special treat, just for you."

To the nurse's great shock, and delight, Illya ducked his head and the elusive half smile played on his lips. It was something that few got to see; especially the medical staff.

"Thank you," he said, with absolute sincerity.

"If you're very good, the doctor will allow you to go home this afternoon," she told him.

"In that case, I promise to be on my best behaviour."

Maisie snorted out a laugh, as she helped Illya to get into a more comfortable eating position.

"Too little, too late, Mr Kuryakin," she replied. "You should make that promise when you arrive."

"I am sorry, Maisie," he stated contritely. "I honestly do not know why I get so fretful."

The nurse smiled, warmly. "Don't worry about it, Illya. We know you well enough now to know that it isn't your true nature. Now, eat your lunch, and I'll go and see what time the doctor will discharge you.

Deep inside Illya, the terror he'd felt seemed to quiet a little, though it had been the first time ever that any sort of an answer had come close to presenting itself.

~_All was in darkness, but he was aware of being immersed in some sort of tub, which felt as though it was filled with something cold and gelatinous. An attempt to move quickly told him that his head, wrists and feet were restrained against the sides of the tub. A yell was beginning to form in his throat, but was cut off by the sudden illumination of the room._

_He tried to look around, but was severely hampered by the head restraints. All he could gather from his peripheral vision was that there were others in the same situation as he was. Straining his eyes downwards, he was horrified to discover that his body was submerged in a thick, translucent green gel. More worryingly, he could make out several electrode pads, attached to his very naked body. Wires snaked from the pads and met at an unremarkable looking control box._

_Every so often, a figure dressed in a white uniform, like that of a nurse, passed by. None of them spoke to the ones being held captive in the strange room. After several long minutes, one of the nurses announced that all was well. He had no idea what she meant by that but soon all thoughts of it left his head. Around him the sound of screaming could be heard, and it surprised him to realise that one of the voices belonged to him. The electricity which was coursing through him, and the others, was the cause of tormented cries.~_

Illya awoke with a scream which mirrored that of his dream, but he hurriedly bit it back. His eyes darted around his bedroom and, seeing no danger, he allowed himself to start relaxing. Panting heavily with residual fear, he sat up and concentrated on bringing his breathing back under control. Once he felt able, he climbed out of bed and shuffled towards the kitchen. His aim was to make a hot milky drink but, a glance at the clock told him it was 1:30 am, which was still technically late; rather than early. Changing his mind, he pulled open the refrigerator and retrieved his bottle of vodka. He and it then went and sat on the sofa, in the dark. The nightmare was still very vivid in his mind, which worried him.

A week had passed since Illya had been discharged from medical. Despite his usual protestations, that he was perfectly fit for duty, he had been forced to accept a seven day medical leave. Normally he would have ignored it, but the doctor had brought in the big guns. For all Illya would happily defy a medical order, one from Mr Waverly was a different matter entirely. The Old Man had threatened to make it a suspension if he didn't heed the doctor's advice.

This was the final night of his leave, and the next morning couldn't come soon enough for him. His days had been fine, with Illya taking the opportunity to catch up on some scientific journals. He also enjoyed walking around his adopted city. Of course, to him, they were more than just leisurely strolls. As he'd walked, he'd made careful mental notes of quicker ways to negotiate the streets on foot. Illya had rather enjoyed his days off, but his nights had not been so relaxing.

He had been woken two or three times each night by nightmares but, although the dread they'd brought had lingered on, he hadn't been able to remember any of them. Nightmares had been a constant in his life, though they had lessened somewhat in recent years. This one was different. Taking a swig from the bottle it suddenly hit him why. It hadn't been a dream at all. The things he had witnessed as he'd slept were memories.

Illya had no idea how or why the memories had been buried, but he knew that he needed to talk to a professional. Apart from anything else, the sleep deprivation he was experiencing would be detrimental to his health. Seeking psychiatric help was something he usually avoided, but the nightmare had him spooked; a feeling he didn't like at all. He would go to the psyche department as soon as he could.

Arriving at work the next day, Illya wasn't given the opportunity to go to the Command's psychiatric, as he and Napoleon were sent out on an assignment almost immediately. U.N.C.L.E. had learned of a chemical factory to the north of the state, with possible links to Thrush, so Solo and Kuryakin were dispatched to surveil and infiltrate the facility. Should evidence of Thrush involvement be found, they were to destroy everything.

Upon reaching the location, they parked the car in a relatively safe position and watched the movements of the security guards. They were looking for a patrol pattern, and also wanted to ascertain if there was any deviation once nightfall came. Surveillance was something that both men were well used to, and they easily dropped into their usual routine. For a couple of hours they talked over the mission, and any other subject which cropped up. They then tossed a coin to see who would get to sleep for a few hours first. As they would be awake most of the night, it would be prudent to ensure they were well rested. Illya won the toss and was asleep in less than a minute.

After two hours of taking notes in almost complete silence (it still surprised Napoleon how quietly his partner snored), Illya began to squirm in his seat, and was making anxious noises. Napoleon frowned as Illya began to shout in Russian. His voice was etched with fear and anger.

"Nyet! Nyet! Pozhaluysta, nyet! (_No! No! Please, no!_)"

It wasn't the first time Solo had been present for one of Illya's nightmares, so he was used to bringing him back to reality. Knowing it was an act of stupidity to shake a sleeping Section 2 agent, he instead reached out to tap his shoulder. Before he could, Illya said something in a heart-rending tone which Napoleon had only ever heard once before. It had been when Illya was infected with a fear gas*.

"Bol'no (_It hurts_)" he whimpered, sounding like a terrified youth. "Ty delayesh' mne bol'no (_You're hurting me_)."

"Illya! Wake up!"

The Russian jerked awake and looked around frantically. Seeing that he was in the car with Napoleon he calmed down a little, but there was still panic in his eyes, which darted back and forth in search of the source of his fright.

"That seemed like a particularly bad nightmare," Solo commented, sympathetically. "Want to talk about it?"

"It wasn't a nightmare," Illya told him, closing his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure. "It was an emerging memory."

"What do you mean?"

Illya explained a little of what was coming back to him, and that he was beginning to remember experiments which had been conducted on him, and others, when he was in his teens.

"What kind of experiments?" Napoleon asked, with concern.

"Would you mind if we do not talk about it now?" Illya asked, sounding drained. "It is an emotive subject, and we have a job to do."

Solo agreed, but told him that he expected to resume the conversation when the assignment was over. Apart from anything else, he was Illya's superior, as well as his partner, and he needed to know if there was anything which could pose a danger to either of them in the future.

"Go back to sleep," he urged.

"I do not want to sleep," Kuryakin responded, not willing to admit that he was afraid of what he might see if he did. "You take your turn; I'll take over the surveillance."

Napoleon wasn't sure he should, but he could see the steely expression in Illya's eyes and knew there was little point in arguing. He could be a stubborn SOB when he wanted to be.

Illya allowed Napoleon to sleep until an hour after darkness fell. Opening his eyes Napoleon was surprised to discover it was already 9 pm. Illya reached into the back seat for their flask of coffee and sandwiches and, as he handed them to Napoleon, he told him that the security patrols hadn't deviated their pattern, even after a shift change. None of the guards were wearing a recognisable Thrush uniform, but that didn't mean they weren't Thrush. The bulk of the non-security staff had left two hours ago.

"If we aim for that door," he said, indicating the one closest to them. "We will have a luxurious fifteen minutes to get from here to inside."

"Why didn't you wake me sooner?" Napoleon asked, biting into his sandwich.

"There was no need," Illya replied, brushing away the question. "If I am correct, a guard will pass in ten minutes, which gives you plenty of time to eat, and for us to get prepped."

"Are you not eating?"

"Already have."

Napoleon glanced into the backseat and saw the debris from Illya's food. He was strangely relieved. If Illya still had an appetite, then maybe things weren't too bad with him.

"I think we should destroy the facility regardless of what we find," Illya stated flatly.

"We still don't know if Thrush is involved," Napoleon reminded him. "However, if you find anything, just go ahead and set charges. Don't use a timer. We'll blow them remotely."

As predicted, the agents easily made it across to the facility, and they were able to break in without anyone noticing. With practised ease, they split up and began to search, after first agreeing to rendezvous back where they entered in fifteen minutes.

Napoleon quickly passed, unimpeded, through several labs full of equipment he didn't understand, until he found a room full of file cabinets. Picking one at random, he employed a little judicious lock-picking, and found what he was looking for. The very first file he pulled out had the ugly Thrush bird logo stamped on it; as did the second, and third. That was all he needed as proof of Thrush involvement, and he set about laying charges. Napoleon didn't bother to read the contents of any of the files knowing that they would soon be nothing more than dust.

In another part of the building, Illya was moving through labs almost identical to the ones through which Napoleon was travelling. The machines, flasks, and test tubes around him, most of which he recognised, were having an effect on him which he hadn't expected, and that he wasn't comfortable with. He could feel a coldness in his stomach, as though a large ice ball had formed. A tightness in his chest warned him of an oncoming panic attack. Swallowing hard and breathing deeply, Illya tried to fend off the attack, as well as the surge of memories which the equipment was stirring up.

Gaining some semblance of control of himself, Illya continued on with his mission. It took him mere moments to break into the first file cabinet and find the object of his search. The files within were marked in the same way as the ones Napoleon had found but, unlike his partner, Illya decided to dig deeper. Opening one with the title 'Strength and Stamina Augmentation Study – Live Test Preparation', Illya quickly realised that the scientists in this facility were recreating the experiments to which he had been subjected. With barely any notice, saliva filled his mouth, his stomach lurched, and he vomited.

As he leant against the file cabinet, breathing heavily, someone unexpectedly grabbed him from behind. Illya's survival instinct kicked in immediately and he easily released himself. Twisting around he came face to chest with a heavy-set guard, who was at least a foot taller than he was.

The two men fought and grappled for several minutes, with fists being thrown, and scientific equipment flying in all directions. Neither of them paid any heed to the broken glass crunching beneath their feet. Illya was just about managing to hold his own, right up to the point the guard picked him up and threw him bodily across the room. Illya hit the wall hard, banging his head before slumping to the floor. He was momentarily winded and dazed, but had enough left in him to pull out his gun and shoot. The guard died instantly. There hadn't been time to fit the silencer, so Illya could only hope that no-one had heard the shot.

The frozen ball of fear which had been in Illya's stomach was suddenly a raging ball of fire, as a white hot anger began to burn through his veins. The thought that history was repeating infuriated him mightily. The first time around, Illya had been powerless, but this time he was in a position to prevent it. He would raze the place to the ground, and just this once, he didn't care if anyone from the facility was caught up in the blast.

However, despite the adrenalin and the conviction, Illya found it difficult to get to his feet. The combination of jarring his spine against the wall, banging his head, and the after effects of the stunted panic attack, had left him feeling a little weak and wobbly. Summoning the energy from somewhere, Illya managed to lay his charges in strategic positions before going back to where they had come in. Napoleon was waiting for him.

"Trouble?" the American asked, as he watched Illya shakily walking towards him. "I heard a gunshot."

"Nothing I could not deal with," the Russian answered.

"Were you hit? Do you need a hospital?"

"Nyet," Illya replied. "I shot him. We did fight, which will necessitate my visiting medical when we return."

Napoleon frowned. A voluntary trip to medical was a definite cause for concern.

They made it back to their vehicle without incident and Napoleon handed the detonator to Illya. His partner's passion for big booms was well known, but his expression of grim triumph, as the facility collapsed in on itself, caused Solo's heart to freeze.

Clad only in his underpants, Illya slid down from the examination table, following a thorough check-up from U.N.C.L.E.'s chief medic. For a private man, he seemed to have no qualms about being naked, or near naked, in front of anyone. Most people assumed it was because of the numerous times he had been stripped by his many captors over the years, but Illya was beginning to realise that it was actually down to the past he was starting to remember.

As his patient slowly, and agonisingly, dressed himself, Dr Leonard Barrie was all too aware of the agent's wincing and gasping. He was a mass of internal and external bruising, and was in a great deal of pain, following his latest run-in with a Thrush goon. Despite knowing what the response would be, he knew he had to suggest Mr Kuryakin stay overnight for observation. It had only been a week since he had been released from medical after his last contretemps with Thrush.

"I strongly recommend that you do stay here," Dr Barrie stressed. "Even if only for one night. Having the nurses to keep an eye on you means I can give you much stronger sedatives and painkillers, which will enable you to get a good few hours rest."

"No," Illya replied, with a slight edge. "I am exceptionally grateful that you are here to patch me up, but I will not stay in a hospital if it is not necessary."

"Mr Kuryakin. . ."

"Unless you are going to make it an order, the answer remains no," the Russian cut in. "However, I will agree to take whatever painkillers you recommend, and I will report back here first thing in the morning."

The doctor waved a hand in defeat. He did indeed have the power to confine an agent to medical, and woe betide anyone who defied him, but it would be easier for all concerned to let Kuryakin go. The man's injuries weren't life threatening, and he could be trusted to seek help should he need it. Illya would, of course, be limited to light duties for a while.

"Would you allow me to ask you a frank and personal question?" Barrie enquired.

"You may ask," Illya agreed. "But I may not answer."

Dr Barrie took a deep breath. Kuryakin wasn't a violent man, if you discounted what he did for a living, but his wrath could be scary without any violence.

"What is it exactly that you hate about being in a hospital environment?" the doctor asked. "I know you don't enjoy being the object of attention, but other than that, I can see no other reason as to why you are always so desperate to get away. We are simply trying to heal you, in comfort."

"I understand that," Illya said, with a small smile. He suddenly looked extremely young and vulnerable, and nothing like the dangerous agent he was. "The rational part of me knows it."

"So, it is an irrational fear?"

Illya opened his mouth to speak, intending to cut off Dr Barrie's line of questioning, but closed it again. He always kept his early life a closed book to almost everyone, but the particular part of his teens which had revealed itself, had been shrouded even from him. As much as he had no desire to reveal the disturbing details of that time, he had already decided to face up to it. The nightmares he had been enduring were horrific, and he feared they would render him unfit for field duty. If his reaction to the labs at the Thrush facility were anything to go by, then things would probably just get worse. Plus, Illya's propensity for ending up in medical, or a hospital, meant that he would never escape the horror, unless he attacked it head on.

"Can I rely on doctor/patient confidentiality?" Illya asked, fixing Barrie with an icy glare; daring him to say no.

"Yes, you can, but only as long as what is said doesn't impact on this organisation, or your effectiveness."

"Understood."

Illya started pacing the room, but Dr Barrie said and did nothing. It was rare for the Russian to open up about anything and he didn't want to risk derailing him at such a delicate moment.

"In the past, you have commented on my endurance and strength" he began. "While others have been amazed by my mental acuity and intelligence. Nature had gifted me those qualities to a degree, but they were artificially enhanced when I was a teenager."

After being rounded up, with thousands of other street orphans, the young Illya had found himself in the state school system. Possessed of a natural curiosity, and aptitude for learning, he had soon excelled. This had meant he'd come to the attention of some people who wished to exploit his abilities. For just over a year, he was held at a prison-like clinic, where experimental procedures were performed on those who showed any kind of above-average physical or mental ability.

"I do not wish to go into details about what I experienced, partially because there are some things my own mind still won't reveal to me; which I have no doubt is for the best." Illya continued. "All you need to know is that I was subjected to constant torments, and humiliating, painful experiments, by people who looked like any other doctor or nurse."

"I am truly sorry you had to go through such horror," Barrie said, when Illya finished his tale. "Though it does explain why you can endure so much torment while on assignment, both physically and mentally. Why is none of this is on your records?"

"I do not know," Kuryakin replied. "I have only come to realise anything happened myself."

He explained about the nightmares and memories.

"As I said, you can trust in doctor/patient confidentiality," Dr Barrie told him. "However, I believe this is something which should not be kept quiet."

"I have been thinking that I should probably consult with Dr Francis. Mr Waverly should also be told."

Dr James Francis was the chief psychiatrist for U.N.C.L.E. New York, and was a man Illya generally did his best to keep away from.

"With your permission, I could inform Mr Waverly on your behalf," the doctor suggested. "However, I must say that until you have resolved the issues which have arisen, you will have to stay out of the field. I will make that an order if it makes it easier."

"You do not have to make it an order," Illya told the doctor. "And I would indeed be very grateful if you could let Mr Waverly know the situation, and that I am actively confronting it."

"Have you made an appointment with Dr Francis?"

"Not yet, but I will do so once I leave here." Illya replied. "I do not like baring my innermost thoughts, but I realise I need to exorcise these demons, if only for the sake of the sanity of the nurses."

Dr Barrie smiled at the statement. Mr Kuryakin was known as a holy terror in the department, but no-one could understand why. Hopefully, U.N.C.L.E. medical would soon come to know a much calmer man. The doctor couldn't begin to grasp what terrible things the young man would have endured but, from his knowledge of the darker side of medical history, he was astounded that Illya was as sane as he was.

"Thank you, Mr Kuryakin, for being so candid. I'll get you those painkillers. Oh, by the way, does your partner know any of this? As CEA he really ought to be told."

"He knows some of it, but I will make sure he knows the rest. After all, he will need to decide if our partnership is in jeopardy."

While he waited for the pills, Illya thought about what he had just revealed. He felt lighter at having told part of the story to someone other than Napoleon, and was now absolutely determined to relieve himself of the burden of the rest. The past was painful and hard, but his present was relatively safe and comfortable. If his future was going to be what he hoped, the past would have to be dealt with. On the way out of the building he would make an appointment with Dr Francis, and then he would find Napoleon and invite him to sit in on it. If he was going to let go of the past, he would need the support of his closest friend.

Dr Barrie telephoned Waverly to make sure he was free and, as soon as the chief was told that Kuryakin was the topic of discussion, he cleared half an hour. The doctor was seated at the round conference table within minutes.

"Were Mr Kuryakin's injuries worse than first thought," Waverly asked.

"No," Dr Barrie assured him. "However, things are beginning to come to light regarding something he endured during his youth. It would seem his latest assignment has expedited the emergence of an issue that had already begun to show itself. It could potentially have serious consequences for his effectiveness as an agent, as well as his own sanity. Although, dealt with properly, I believe his resilience should help him through."

The doctor explained what Illya had described to him. Waverly was shocked, yet not surprised.

"There is nothing relating to such experiments in his file," he said, after Barrie finished talking. "Though I don't suppose it's the kind of thing people want known. How do you suggest we proceed?"

"I have taken him off field duty although, I must say, Mr Kuryakin is himself determined to face the issue head-on," Dr Barrie explained. "He is on his way to make an appointment to see Dr Francis. Knowing James, he will clear his schedule for the whole of tomorrow morning."

"I would like to talk to the young man before he sees Dr Francis," said Waverly. "To see what else can be done."

"I will be seeing him first thing," Barrie told the chief. "I'll send him straight up here afterwards, and I'll liaise with James, so that meetings don't clash."

"Thank you. Is Mr Solo in the loop?"

"I believe Mr Kuryakin is seeing to that."

After Dr Barrie went back to his own department, Waverly pondered on what he had been told; chewing the end of his pipe in contemplation. Young Kuryakin's physical and mental abilities were often commented upon, and it was therefore unsurprising that he would be the subject of enhancement experimentation. Waverly let out an exasperated sigh. The Russian was a good and gentle man (if you ignored his profession), yet the fates seemed to have made him the target for some of the worst things a person could endure. How he wasn't a gibbering wreck, in a padded cell, was simply astonishing.

He reached out to his communications panel, intending to get a direct line to Moscow, but pulled his hand back. The information about Kuryakin's past should have been on his records but, for some reason, it had been omitted. Waverly knew, however, that he would not receive an answer as to why. He would have to send out feelers of his own, and could only monitor how things played out here and now.

While Dr Barrie was talking to Waverly, Illya had located Napoleon in their shared office, where he was writing up the report of the mission.

"You've escaped then," Solo stated.

"Yes, but I am to return first thing in the morning. There is something far more important which I must also do tomorrow."

The tone in Illya's voice prompted Napoleon to lay down his pen and give the man his undivided attention. It was a rare thing for his partner to show any kind of fear, but Napoleon could hear it as he spoke.

"Does it have anything to do with the things you have been remembering?" he asked.

Illya nodded. "I have an appointment with Dr Francis at 9 am and I would like for you to be there."

"Anything, Tovarisch, but why do you need me there?"

"Three reasons," Illya replied. "Firstly, as my partner, you will need to decide if you can still rely on me in the field. Secondly, as my CEA, you will need to inform Waverly if I am becoming a liability to the command. Thirdly, and most importantly, I need you there as my friend. I suspect I will become emotional, and I will require someone with me who knows how to talk me down. You are the only person who can fulfil that role."

"In that case, I will definitely be there," Napoleon assured him. "I won't insult you by offering platitudes, but I am sure things won't be as bad as you fear. Whatever comes out tomorrow, we will work through it. Apart from anything else, I don't have the time to train up a new partner."

Illya ducked his head, and smiled shyly. He was not a man who relished the thought of opening up, but with Napoleon at his side, it would be easier to bear.

The following morning, after being given the all clear from medical, Illya headed up to see Waverly. Entering the office, he was surprised to find the Old Man pouring out two cups of tea.

"I had some strawberry jam brought up," Waverly stated, gesturing for Illya to take a seat on the sofa.

He stirred the jam into Illya's tea and handed it to him. He then sat down himself in the armchair.

"I'm not going to ask you for any details," Mr Waverly began. "But, I want you to know that you have my support, and that of the Command. Any assistance you may require will be available as soon as you ask."

"Thank you, Sir," Illya mumbled, taking a sip of his tea, in an effort to disguise his embarrassment and discomfort.

"What do you need in the interim?" Waverly continued. "I can authorise personal leave should you want it."

"If I may," Illya replied, "I would like to remain at work, but I will stay away from field duty."

Waverly agreed. While he wasn't too happy about being down an agent, his duty of care to Kuryakin was the priority.

"I only ask that I be kept informed. Not only by you, but also by those treating you."

Illya was aware that Mr Waverly didn't need his permission to get information on him, but was grateful for the courtesy of him asking. Finishing his tea, he thanked his boss again and headed off for the meeting he was dreading the most. Napoleon was waiting for him outside Dr Francis' office.

"Ready Tovarisch?"

"Da."

Dr Francis had been astounded when his secretary had told him Illya Kuryakin had made an appointment. The man avoided psychiatrists with extreme skill and cunning, unless Waverly intervened, so the fact he had come of his own volition was intriguing to say the least. He sensed that things might get intense; especially as Illya had brought his partner as back-up.

"I hope you don't mind Dr Barrie joining us," he said, indicating the other man in the room. "I understand he already knows part of the story."

"If you wish me to leave, I will," Barrie added.

Illya shook his head, and told the medic that he was more than welcome.

"You may have some insight into the medical implications," he said.

"Before we start," Dr Francis began, as everyone sat down. "Dr Barrie has suggested that I don't take notes for this session. I asked Mr Waverly for his advice and he agreed. He seems to think that what you are about to tell me is too dangerous to risk committing to paper."

"It would make for excellent intelligence for Thrush," Illya agreed.

"Right then, let's get started" Dr Francis urged. "I think it will be best, Illya, if we just let you talk to begin with. I'll interrupt if I need to. So, when you're ready."

The room fell silent while they waited for Illya to start. The two doctors and Napoleon, knowing that the Russian disliked personal scrutiny, each let their gaze wander around the room. Illya internally argued with himself for two or three minutes about whether to go through with the session, or whether to run away. He finally reminded himself that he never ran away from anything. Besides, if he ran now, he'd be running forever.

"As you know, I have been remembering a time from my teenage years," he began. "I was fourteen when I was admitted to the facility which would be my home for a year."

When Illya had woken that morning, he'd realised that just about everything had come back to him. When he and a few of his schoolmates had arrived at the facility, none of them questioned it. They had learned enough to know never to seem curious. At first, nothing seemed overly strange. They had been taken to a main assembly room, where they were assigned dormitories, and told that they were to become the elite. They would be trained and adapted to serve the Soviet Union as super beings. Illya could recall the shudder he had felt at the word 'adapted'. That evening, they had all gone to bed, after being given a special 'medicine'.

The next thing Illya had known was waking up in the vat full of green jelly.

"That was the start of a long cycle of pain acclimatisation, extreme exercise, and chemical experimentation," he told the other three men. "Any attempt to disrupt or question the program resulted in severe punishment."

A small, self-deprecating smile briefly touched his lips, and he looked directly at Napoleon.

"As you know, I have a tendency to provoke my captors."

Solo snorted in amusement, despite the seriousness of the conversation.

"It is a trait I have always had," Illya continued. "I can still feel the sting of my babushka's hand from the many times she spanked me for insolence."

For a moment, a cheekier smile flickered on Illya's face as he recalled his strict, but affectionate grandmother.

"At the facility, it meant that I incurred many punishments. One of the worst was being forced to move rocks from one end of the facility's courtyard to the other, for eight hours, without a break. There was snow on the ground and I wore only lightweight clothing and shoes. I was actually grateful for the snow as it was my only source of water."

Napoleon felt himself shiver in sympathy. He'd never liked being cold, and he'd always assumed that Illya's resilience to it was purely down to where he was born. It would seem that this assumption was only a small percentage of the reason.

"For twelve months we were subjected to non-stop torment," Illya went on. "Over that time the experiments and pain gradually became worse, yet our ability to cope with it became stronger. I do not know whether we were truly toughened, or if it was merely a case of becoming conditioned and desensitised."

The two doctors nodded thoughtfully. Both men had a feeling that it was a combination of both factors.

"May I jump in here?" asked Dr Barrie. "Does a given situation cause you to experience pain differently?"

"Differently?"

"A couple of weeks ago I witnessed you bang your knee in the commissary, when you swerved to miss a spillage" Barrie explained. "You yelled, and let out a string of Russian, which I guessed was cursing. However, I have watched you in medical, with fairly severe injuries, barely make a sound. That is before any pain relief."

Illya shrugged.

"Maybe we were conditioned to not show weakness in the face of the enemy."

"That would make sense," stated Dr Francis. "And, as you somehow associate medical with being captured, this learned behaviour comes to the fore."

Illya suddenly stood up and started pacing the room, but no-one else moved.

"How dare they do this?!" he yelled.

The other three men noted the way Illya had bunched his fists up, and Napoleon recognised the look in his eyes. The Russian was angry, and it showed all too clearly in his body language and his ice blue glare.

"Life was perfect when I was very young," he stated. "I dreamt of being a hunter with my father. Then war came, and my life was taken. My existence from then on became subject to the instruction of others."

He glared around the assembled group and began to feel trapped. He knew he could simply walk out of there, but the rational part of him knew he wouldn't be allowed back on duty. Although his life still didn't belong to him, being an U.N.C.L.E. agent gave him the illusion of being a free man. For a man in Illya's situation, the illusion was just as good as reality.

Napoleon watched his friend closely, and could see what was going through his mind. Illya was a closed book to almost everyone, but Solo had learned to read the warning signs.

"Gentlemen, would you mind leaving us for a few minutes?"

Drs Barrie and Francis readily agreed. Although they couldn't read Kuryakin as well as Solo, they knew that he was becoming agitated, and they also knew his partner would be the man to calm him down.

When they'd gone, Napoleon told Illya to sit down. It was an invitation, but the tone of his voice made it sound like an order. Napoleon had learned, with long experience, that the way to deal with an emotional Illya was to enforce the command structure. The Russian was from a place where that structure was rigid and, even though it was rarely acknowledged, Illya respected the fact that Napoleon was, in fact, his superior. Issuing an instruction in the right way spoke directly to Illya's hindbrain, and he would often obey without thinking. However, this only worked if Illya's mind was on something else.

"I can't even begin to conceive of what horrors you have gone through," Napoleon said softly, once Illya was seated. "I really wish there was something useful I could do to help you through all this."

As much as he wanted to curse the Soviets for the treatment of its own people, he was all too aware that it wasn't the only government which had engaged in such experiments.

Illya smiled sadly. "You are already doing it my friend."

Napoleon could feel his own heart breaking as he observed his closest friend. As was so often the case when the Russian was feeling vulnerable, he looked, for all the world, like a lost and lonely child. Part of him was quite honoured that Illya trusted him enough to show his vulnerable side, but he couldn't deny it was hard to watch.

Illya rubbed his face with hands and sighed.

"Ya zabyla chto takoye normal'naya zhizn'" he murmured.

"You've forgotten what a normal life is?"

Illya nodded. "Not that I ever really got the chance to find out what one was in the first place. What I would not give for a little dacha, deep in the woods, surrounded by many children, and with a wife by my side."

"You can still have that," Napoleon told him. "When you reach forty."

"Not possible," Illya replied sadly. "If I go home, my life will never be my own. My best future would be here in America. Even that will be out of reach if I am unable to resolve my past."

"Are you up to carrying on today?" Solo asked. "I can see that you're becoming quite upset."

For a few seconds, Illya contemplated pausing it all, then dismissed the idea.

"There would be little profit in delaying anything."

Napoleon nodded and went to invite the two doctors back into the room.

"I do not wish to dwell on my experience any further," Illya stated. "Talking it out will not change what happened. What I need to know is, how do I move past it? The memories have already caused me to almost fail on a mission."

He explained more fully what had happened before he and Napoleon had blown up the Thrush facility; looking thoroughly ashamed at having allowed himself to react so badly.

"How can Napoleon trust me to back him up, if there is a chance I will lose control of myself?"

"I wonder...," mused Dr Barrie. "Why did you forget everything in the first place?"

Illya narrowed his eyes in thought and tried to recall anything which could have wiped his memory.

"I do not know," he answered. "Have you got an idea in mind?

"Possibly, but we will need Mr Waverly's permission and, more importantly, your trust."

A short while later the Old Man joined the four men. He was quickly brought up to speed and, although he was a hardened ex-soldier and ex-agent, he found it difficult not to feel revulsion at what the young Russian had endured.

"It is for reasons such as this that U.N.C.L.E. came into being in the first place," he said, almost growling the words.

"The reason I have asked you to join us Sir, is to ask your permission for access to the modified Capsule B.

Capsule B was a pill which induced a seventy-two hour amnesia. It had been used successfully by Mr Solo when he was captured by Thrush. During the same Affair, a Thrush scientist was given a massive dose, which wiped her entire life, permanently**. Since then, U.N.C.L.E.'s R&D department had been working on capsules which would permanently wipe memories for specified amounts of time.

"I understand there is one, known as Capsule Bv3, which will wipe two weeks of memory," Barrie continued. "This would more than cover the last few days. If it works, Mr Kuryakin won't remember remembering. If you get my meaning."

"Let me get this straight," said Illya. "I will forget it all, but the four of you will still know what happened?"

"Indeed," Dr Barrie confirmed. "Which is where your trust comes in. Will you trust us to keep your secret from you, and from anyone else?"

Illya's whole body seemed to freeze. Trust was a difficult area for him and, although he absolutely trusted Napoleon and Waverly, he wasn't so sure about the doctors. The rational part of his mind reminded him that, together, the two men had intimate knowledge of him medically and psychologically. They already knew more than enough about him to be of use to Thrush.

"If I were to go through with this course of action, my need to trust would become immaterial, as I would not know about any of it."

"You are correct," Barrie replied. "However, before we get ahead of ourselves, Mr Waverly will need to sanction the use of the capsule."

All heads turned to the chief, who was thoughtfully chewing on the stem of his pipe.

"For my part, I am more than happy to authorise this action," he told everyone. "However, I would suggest that Mr Kuryakin takes a day to think it over."

He faced Illya directly.

"Go home for the rest of the day," he said, quite gently. "Mr Solo will come to you tomorrow and, should you decide to go ahead, he will inform and you will both go on a false mission. As far as anyone here is concerned, the mission will be exceptionally sensitive, and will require radio silence. There will be absolutely no record of anything discussed here today, nor of the course we are planning."

Unsure of what to say, Illya merely nodded in acknowledgment.

The following morning, very early, Napoleon let himself into Illya's apartment; after first tapping out their coded knock. His partner was sitting on the sofa, facing away from him, and showed no indication of having noticed Napoleon's entrance. Moving into the room, Solo was stopped in his tracks when he saw what Illya was doing.

Ostensibly, the man was merely cleaning his gun. The coffee table in front of him contained the necessary accoutrements, but the way he was handling the weapon was ringing very loud alarm bells. He was caressing it, almost sadly, as though he was never going to see it again. Napoleon had seen men doing something similar when he was in Korea, and knew of at least one man who had gone the whole way and taken himself out of the war, and his life, permanently.

"Illya?" he called out, softly.

The blond head turned towards him, but blue eyes didn't lock with brown ones.

"How are you?" Napoleon enquired warily.

"I have reached a decision," Illya replied, in an oddly flat tone.

"Could you put the gun down?" Solo asked carefully. "You're making me nervous."

Illya looked at the weapon as though he hadn't realised he was holding it. Finally he looked Napoleon in the face and suddenly understood what he was thinking. He lay the gun down on the table.

"It briefly crossed my mind," Illya confessed. "But I dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. I've survived too much to give up that easily."

Napoleon breathed a sigh of relief, trying not to make it too evident.

"So, what is your decision?" he asked.

"I am somewhat worried that the memories may return again one day," Illya told his partner. "But enough people know the truth that it could be headed off quickly, possibly without me knowing. I have decided to take the modified Capsule B."

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Da. Are we doing it here?"

Napoleon explained that he was going to take Illya to a motel. No-one, not even Waverly, would know where they were. They would wait until midnight before Illya took the pill.

"I'm told that you will be unconscious for at least eighteen hours."

"How will you explain the gap in my memory?"

"I don't know yet, but I apologise in advance for the lies I will be filling your head with."

Illya smiled. "I forgive you."

He said it with such solemnity that Napoleon couldn't help but laugh. Illya only used that tone when he was trying to lighten the mood.

The motel chosen by Napoleon was a four-hour drive from U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. For extra security he had hired a car from a place which the command had never used before. The costs were coming out of his own pocket but, although he didn't actually mind in this situation, Waverly had promised he would find a way to reimburse him somehow.

The only word which could be used to describe the motel was 'typical'. It was run-down, but clean, and comprised of several soulless boxes laid side by side on two storeys. It adequately served its purpose as a place for weary travellers to lay their heads. The agents had bedded down in one more times than they cared to remember, but in their business having any sort of bed on an assignment was far more preferable to not having one.

Napoleon and Illya registered for three days under unused pseudonyms and, after finding their room, settled in for the duration. To preclude the need to go out too often, they had picked up enough food to keep them going, along with magazines and books. One blessing was the working television in their room. The pair had been holed up in worse places, for much longer, but there was no harm in making things as comfortable as possible.

Illya had hardly said a word since they had left his apartment, which Napoleon could understand, but it still worried him.

"I'm going to ask you again, Illya, are you absolutely certain you want to go through with this?"

"Yes, Napoleon," his partner assured him. "I cannot live with these memories, and I certainly will not be able to continue as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. Who would be there to rescue you all the time if I am not around?"

"Hey!" Solo exclaimed. "You don't rescue me all the time. In fact, I think you'll find it is you who needs rescuing most."

"I've usually got myself free by the time you arrive," Illya countered. "If I waited for you I would be dead long before you showed up."

The two men laughed. It was an 'argument' they'd had many times and each knew they were having it now as an attempt to ease the tension. It didn't work.

"Why does the universe hate me?"

The question had been asked so quietly, and with such understatement, that Napoleon almost missed it.

"Oh, Tovarisch," Napoleon sighed. "I wish I could answer that. Maybe it was God's way of hardening you, to give you the tools you needed to fight the forces of evil."

Illya briefly smiled. "It is a nice theory, my friend, but you know I am an atheist. Besides, how many other agents had to go through such hellish experiences to make them good agents?"

Napoleon had to concede Illya's point. His own background, if you discounted the horror of Korea, had been happy and comfortable. His parents, and his sister, were all still with him, and he had a nephew and niece on whom he lavished love and gifts. Illya's family was gone; taken by war.

"Are you going to tell me I was a guest of Thrush?" Illya asked, changing the subject back to the Capsule B.

"Probably," Solo answered. "It seems the most logical, and something you are more likely to believe."

"Then you will have to provide further evidence."

"I don't understand."

Illya explained that Napoleon would have to punch him several times, to create bruises. It would create the illusion that Illya had fought against his captors, and make it seem more realistic. Napoleon could see the validity of the other man's suggestion, but he couldn't just punch his friend for no reason. He explained as much to Illya.

"It is not for no reason," the Russian told him. "It is to cement the illusion."

"That's all very well for you to say, but I've been on the receiving end of your fist to my face, and I have absolutely no wish to repeat the experience."

Illya laughed, remembering the times he'd accidently hit Napoleon in the middle of a melee. It was never deliberate, but he couldn't help finding it amusing.

"I will try not to react," he promised. "It will only need two or three to the ribs, one to the kidney, and one to my face would be probably be appropriate."

"Hmmmmm," replied Napoleon, not entirely reassured by Illya's words. "What about the bruises you already have? Won't they do the job?"

"They are already a couple of days old," Illya replied. "Fresh ones will be needed. Come on, my friend. I really do promise not to retaliate."

Napoleon knew that Illya wouldn't hit him out of viciousness or malice, but his reflexes were finely honed. It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect him to react on instinct. However, he knew it would need to be done.

"I suppose now is as good a time as any," he said, wanting to get it over with quickly. "It will give your bruises time to develop properly. If they looked too new that could also make you suspicious."

Illya stood up and held his arms out to the sides to give Napoleon an easier target.

"Do not hold back," he advised. "Even if it means breaking something."

Napoleon could feel bile rising in his throat. He wasn't a squeamish man, and he'd punched many people during his life, but this felt so wrong to him. Illya was his closest friend, and to hurt him intentionally was a difficult thing to come to terms with. He had asked Illya if he was still willing to go through with this the whole scheme, but he was beginning to wonder if he could do so himself. Illya wouldn't remember anything, but he would always have the memories of punching his friend and then lying to him.

However, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that their friendship was what would ensure his part in it. He knew he could live with the things he was doing if it meant Illya was relieved of the memories of that terrible year.

"Okay," he said. "Close your eyes so you don't know when the blow is coming."

Illya did as instructed and waited for the first impact. He grunted as Napoleon's fist landed hard against the left side of his rib cage, near to a painful bruise he was already sporting. This was followed by one to the right, and another to the right side of his lower back. It was taking everything he had to hold back his instinct to defend himself, or fight back.

When it came to aiming for Illya's face, Napoleon knew that he had to be careful. He needed to leave a mark, but had to avoid his nose. With a careful aim, he swung his fist and connected with the left side of the jaw. Illya's head snapped sideways, and he staggered back a little. Before he could regain his balance, Napoleon struck again, sending him sprawling onto one of the beds, dazed.

While Illya recovered himself, Napoleon went into the bathroom. He splashed water onto his face and stared at himself in the mirror for quite some time. He'd done many terrible things, and a fair few questionable things in his life, but he'd never felt as much of a heel as he did right at that moment. Returning to the other room, he found Illya sitting up, rubbing his ribs with one hand and his face with the other.

"Are you okay," the Russian asked the American.

"I should be asking you that," Napoleon replied. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

"Please do not worry unduly, my friend," Illya told him. "In our job we often have to perform duties which we do not like. This was simply another."

"Are you ready for lunch?" Solo asked, diverting the conversation.

"Always," Illya answered, with a grin.

For the next twelve hours Napoleon and Illya filled their time with chatting, reading, and watching TV. Every so often Illya would groan slightly as he shifted position; a sure sign that his bruises were developing nicely. In fact, a large dark mark was spreading quite well along his jawline. Finally, as midnight drew closer, it was time to take the capsule. Napoleon took it from his pocket and, along with a glass of water, handed it to Illya.

"See you on the other side," he said, with a forced smile.

After only a slight hesitation, Illya swallowed the capsule. He lay down on the bed, and waited for sleep to take him. He was out within seconds. There was nothing left for Napoleon to do but wait. After double-checking the security of the room, he settled down to sleep himself.

It had just gone 9 am when Napoleon woke the next morning. Glancing across to the other bed he saw that Illya was still snoring gently. He glanced at his watch and calculated that he had around nine hours before Illya came back to the land of the living. However, knowing his partner's resistance to drugs of any kind, Napoleon decided it would be safer to remove the evidence of their occupation sooner rather than later. He was going to have to persuade Illya that he had brought him to the motel at the end of an assignment, and having food and magazines around would no doubt lead to questions he couldn't answer. It would mean he would have nothing to do other than watch TV, but he'd spent days in cells without anything to occupy him; so he would easily cope.

As Solo had expected, Illya returned to consciousness only two hours later; several hours before he was expected to. The Russian groaned loudly as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around the room.

He didn't recognise the place, and had no idea how they came to be there.

"Don't you remember anything?"

Illya frowned as he tried to recall what had led them to the motel. As much as he tried, he could bring nothing to mind.

"Everything is a complete blank," he replied, with confusion. "I shall assume an enemy was involved given the soreness across my torso and face."

Standing up, he made his unsteady way to the bathroom to get a good look at the bruise blooming along his jaw.

Watching him go, Napoleon had to try exceptionally hard to bury the guilt he was feeling. Illya trusted him, just as he trusted Illya. Would that trust hold if the Russian were to ever discover he had been lied to by his closest friend?

"Thrush?" Illya asked, coming back out of the bathroom.

Napoleon nodded. "You were taken off the street two days ago," he told him. "When I finally got to you, an experimental drug had just been injected into you."

"Again?" Illya sighed, wearily. "Any idea what it was? It obviously did not kill me."

"After a little persuasion your captor explained that it is a new amnesia drug," Solo said, hoping that Illya's keen instincts couldn't detect the lie. "They have been working on creating something that will cause a permanent memory loss for given amounts of time. What's the last thing you remember?"

Illya's eyes lost focus as he tried to drag his last memory to the front of his mind.

"Returning from Madrid," he answered eventually. "When was that?"

"Two weeks ago."

Napoleon watched Illya carefully; looking for any sign that the plan hadn't worked. The Russian had an expression of confusion on his face, which was only natural, but the American could spot nothing amiss. Only time would tell if it was truly a success.

"There is something I don't understand," Illya stated, causing Napoleon's heart to drop.

"What's that, Tovarisch?"

"I do not wish to sound egotistical, but why would Thrush want to wipe my memory?" Illya asked. "Given the knowledge and secrets I hold, surely extraction of information would be the priority."

"Who knows?" said Napoleon, with a shrug. "Maybe your importance to U.N.C.L.E. is what they wanted to destroy."

"They could have just killed me."

"True. But why kill you when they can use you as a guinea pig?"

Illya seemed to accept that as a valid explanation. He had noted many times that the members of the nefarious organisation had a misplaced flair for the dramatic.

Returning to headquarters, Napoleon hustled Illya straight to medical, where Dr Barrie declared him to be physically fit. The bruises, though painful, would soon heal.

"What about the memory loss?" Napoleon asked, "Will it return?"

Although it sounded as though he were asking on Illya's behalf, Dr Barrie fully understood what Solo was actually asking.

"It's difficult to say," he told the two men. "I'm afraid, Mr Kuryakin, that you may have to live with having days missing from your memory."

"It would not be the first time," Illya replied, absently.

Solo and Barrie looked to one another sharply; thankfully it was unseen by Illya.

"What do you mean?" Napoleon queried.

"Surely it is the same for you," Kuryakin said. "How many times have you been rendered unconscious for more than a day? We must have both lost many days from our memories."

The CEA and the medic each mentally breathed a sigh of relief.

"Well, when you put it like that," Napoleon agreed.

Two Weeks later.

Napoleon made his way through the corridors of headquarters, having been away for just over a week. Waverly had sent him on a top-secret, radio-silenced mission, to which no-one but he and the chief were privy. It wasn't an unusual event in the life of a secret agent, so absolutely no-one questioned it. Reaching the outer office of his boss, he asked Lisa Rogers if the Old Man was free.

"He was informed of your arrival," Lisa told him. "I'm to send you straight in."

Once inside the main office, Mr Waverly invited his agent to take a seat, before he flicked a switch on his communications panel.

"This is a closed meeting, Miss Rogers," he told his secretary. "I shall be sealing the door, so nobody will be allowed admittance."

"Yes Sir."

"Did you get the information?" he asked Solo, after switching off the communicator.

"I did," Napoleon confirmed. "I found out what I could relatively quickly. I would have been back sooner, but getting back out of Russia undetected was a long and delicate operation."

"It was always going to be a difficult mission, Mr Solo. What conclusions have you brought back?"

"The facility Illya was held in as a teenager was decommissioned, and the program closed down, about a month after he left there."

There was nothing in any record Napoleon could find to explain why the program had been abandoned. From what he could gather, all the 'victims' had been allowed to continue on with their normal lives, but the majority of the staff had all died in apparent assassinations.

"It would seem that only one doctor escaped this purge," Napoleon continued. "A woman called Malvina Dmitrievna Tolstaya."

"That name is familiar," Waverly muttered, trying to recall where he'd heard it. "Ah, of course. The laboratory that you and Mr Kuryakin destroyed last month."

"The one which was conducting the same experiments Illya was subjected to?"

"Exactly," Mr Waverly replied gravely. "A Dr Tolstaya was listed among the scientific staff of the lab."

"I'm afraid to ask this Sir, but was she caught up in our demolition."

"We believe so, Mr Solo, though we can never be completely certain."

"We shall just have to hope she was," Napoleon mused.

"I trust you have left no evidence of this investigation either here or in Russia."

Napoleon confirmed that there was absolutely no record anywhere. Waverly told Solo that everything relating to the whole Kuryakin affair had been expunged, and that the only people with any knowledge were the two of them, and Doctors Barrie and Francis.

"Let us endeavour to keep it that way, Mr Solo."

As soon as the meeting ended, Napoleon sought out his partner. He found him heading for the commissary.

"Successful assignment?" Illya asked.

"As successful as it could be," Napoleon answered. "Are you heading for lunch?"

Illya told him he was, knowing better than to ask what his partner's mission was. Everything was 'need to know' in their game.

"I believe I owe you lunch," the American stated.

"You owe me several."

Napoleon smiled at the taunt. "Come on then. We'll go to that Italian place around the corner."

"What is going on?" Illya asked, suspiciously.

"I've been away, and I want to catch up with my partner," Napoleon replied, with false hurt in his voice.

"In that case, I hope you have plenty of cash on you."

Napoleon opened his wallet to prove it wouldn't be a problem, only to find it bereft of money.

"Oh, I used what I had on a cab from the airport."

Illya laughed with the inevitability of it.

"Worry not, my friend. This one is on me."

_*The Quadripartite Affair_

_**The Nowhere Affair_


End file.
